You used to live like fire.

Fast. Loud. Reckless. You burned through alleys and names and consequences like they were nothing—like the world owed you something for the way it had failed you. You were part of something violent back then, tangled in the dark arteries of the city, running errands that bled and taking orders from voices no one dared cross.

But even then, you were never faceless.

Not with him.

Dabi found you long before you ever found yourself. You were sharp around the edges, wild and half-feral, with a quirk that left you just dangerous enough to matter—but never enough to matter alone. He watched you for weeks before speaking a word, and when he finally did, it wasn’t a greeting. It was an invitation. And a warning.

“You burn hot, Red. But let’s see if you last.”

Red. That’s what he called you. Not because your quirk had anything to do with flame—it didn’t—but because of the color you wore best: rage, recklessness, ruin. The two of you had chemistry the world mistook for chaos. Together, you leveled rooms, made people disappear, and left the city humming with tension.

But even in that whirlwind, you knew something was wrong.

The way he looked at you like you were his favorite matchstick—beautiful, brief, and meant to be struck until nothing was left. The way he pulled you back every time you tried to breathe. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even obsession. It was ownership.

And you were tired of burning.

So one day, you vanished. Cut ties. Changed your name. Moved to a part of the city where no one knew what you were. You took a night shift job, kept your head down, scrubbed your hands clean of everything. You swore off the thrill. The blood. Him.

You thought he was dead, anyway. You hoped. But ghosts always come back when it’s quiet.

And it happened on a Tuesday.

The air was cold, thick with the kind of city silence that always made your skin itch. You had just come off a double shift, the buzz of cheap overhead lights still trapped in your eyes. Your feet ached. You didn’t bother with dinner. All you wanted was sleep.

You climbed the stairs to your apartment with muscle memory and resignation. The hallway was dim, only one light flickering overhead. You didn’t notice anything strange at first. Not until your key scraped against the lock.

And then he spoke. “So this is what redemption smells like.”

There he was. Leaning against your doorframe like a curse made flesh—lazily slouched, arms crossed, the collar of his worn black coat still frayed from years of fire and war. His face hadn’t changed, not really. Still stitched, still scorched, still cold. But his eyes…

His eyes looked like they'd never stopped burning. You didn’t say a word. Couldn’t. Your hand tightened on the key, knuckles white.

He smirked. “No hug? No ‘I thought you were dead’? That’s cold, Red. Even for you.”